


the earth, that is sufficient

by morningsound15



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (mostly), Accidental Marriage, Accidental Stimulation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clexa Week 2018, Established Relationship, F/F, Famous, Fluff, Marriage, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Rivals in a Secret Relationship, at work, meet ugly, there's a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-23 19:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13794510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: Clarke Griffin meets the Commander of the Grounder army under less-than-ideal circumstances.**For Clexaweek 2018





	1. Meet Ugly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sunday, February 25th: Meet Ugly**
> 
> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being mostly canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.

____________________

 _The earth, that is sufficient,_  
_I do not want the constellations any nearer,_  
_I know they are very well where they are,_  
_I know they suffice for those who belong to them._

____________________

Clarke Griffin meets the Commander of the Grounder army under less-than-ideal circumstances.

The Commander cuts a powerfully imposing figure at the front of her tent. She wears an impressive amount of armor — including leather arm guards and a metal shoulder pauldron with a full-length cape attached, blood red and draped with such a casual flair that it can’t be anything other than purposeful. Her hair is long, and it hangs down past her shoulders, but the top of her head is covered with an intricate system of braids that leave her face free and her eyesight uninhibited. She wears a mask of dark paint around her eyes, the bottom of the design dripping down past her cheekbones like tear tracks. Her throne is an ornate collection of curved wood, carved bone, and sharp, glittering weaponry.

Clarke, flanked on either side by two of the largest and most menacing men she’s ever seen, feels dwarfed within her surroundings.

The woman’s long fingers play with a knife she holds in her hands. It’s a simple thing, really, set inside a dark wooden handle with little artifice. She spins it in her hands, and the blade glints with no small amount of sharp malice. The Commander turns her gaze up while keeping her head down, doing nothing to hide either her mistrust or her complete self-confidence. She has all the power here, and she knows it.

“You’re the one who burned 300 of my warriors alive,” she says, and Clarke immediately bristles at the accusation lacing the woman’s words.

Clarke knows what this woman’s game is all about; she sensed it the second she stepped foot into this tent; she could smell it a mile away. She knows the Commander is trying to intimidate her, to make her feel tiny and insignificant in the face of all of this obscene power and obvious might. She knows what intimidation tactics look like, and she refuses to bend to them.

“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us,” she says with teeth clenched tight. She meets the Commander’s gaze and doesn’t blink.

The Commander pauses, her hands stilling on her knife. She looks at Clarke carefully, like she’s trying to read her; like she’s sizing her up. Clarke stands perfectly still and doesn’t move.

The Commander finally breaks their brief pause, moving until she can bury the tip of her knife into the arm of her make-shift throne. She straightens where she sits, and tilts her chin up, ever so slightly. (Clarke thinks she might have just passed the first gauntlet, though by what standard she’s being judged, she has no idea.)

“Do you have an answer for me, Klark of the Sky People?” The Commander asks, her throat creating a roughness to the formation of Clarke’s name that is wholly unfamiliar to her. She spits it out like it’s venom on her tongue, her mouth clumsy in forming the unfamiliar sounds (though she hides it well).

Clarke knows her appearance doesn’t even come _close_ to matching the elegance and grace and pure authority emanating from the woman before her. She feels the cuts on her forehead and the bridge of her nose acutely; her skinned chin burns when she opens her mouth; her left eye, she knows, is just beginning to form a dark and angry purple bruise. Her clothes are ratty and old; her hair a mess of greasy uncleanliness.

But still, she pushes her shoulders back and meets the Commander’s burning gaze head-on. “I’ve come to make you an offer,” she says with all the conviction she can manage to fake.

The Commander’s nose pulls up — the barest hint of a smirk. “This is not a negotiation,” she says darkly, her teeth bared in what might have been a smile on a person capable of such an expression. But on this savage warrior, it looks more like a snarl.

There’s an older woman standing at the Commander’s side — with dark tattoos lining her face and her hair cropped short to her head. She’s older — much older, in fact, than the Commander herself, and Clarke wonders (not for the first time) how these Grounders choose their leaders, if someone so young can take the mantle of Supreme Ruler over the head of a warrior with decades-more experience, over men easily twice her size.

This dark-skinned woman, her eyes glued to Clarke with an expression holding no insignificant amount of contempt and distrust, growls something in a language Clarke cannot understand. But though she may not understand the words, the woman’s tone is still enough to make Clarke’s blood run cold.

The Commander holds up a hand and the woman falls silent immediately. Though she tries not to, Clarke can’t help but be impressed with the Commander’s undeniable and unflappable clout. She can command a room without even _speaking_ , and there’s something about that kind of power that has to be (begrudgingly) admired.

“I can help you beat the Mountain Men,” Clarke says quickly, with a glance towards the dark and angry woman in the corner. She understands how precarious her situation is. If she doesn’t prove she has something worthy to discuss, she doubts the Commander will allow her to continue speaking. (Clarke bears the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders; she is her peoples’ last hope for survival against a furious and powerful enemy, and she cannot fail them.)

The Commander pauses again, for only the briefest of moments. She pulls her knife out of the chair and lays it across her lap. The sound of the blade sliding against the metal of her armor is something akin to nails on a chalkboard, and it sets Clarke’s teeth on edge.

Clarke holds her breath as the Commander watches her. Her eyes betray nothing; her face is a mask of indifference. And yet, she nods once, and says, “Go on.”

Clark begins to breathe again.

 

 

The first time Clarke is actually face-to-face with the Commander, she’s almost surprised by how short she is. On her raised platform, with her throne towering ominously behind her, she looked about eight feet tall. But in actuality, they’re almost exactly the same height.

The Commander steps down from her platform slowly; a panther stalking its prey. She draws up in front of Clarke and leaves barely a foot of space between them. Her face is dark, and angry; full of distrust and dislike. Her gaze is burning, searching; she stares at Clarke and doesn’t blink, her eyes scanning Clarke’s face for any hint of deceit.

Clarke blinks in surprise when their eyes meet with no difficulty. Standing this close, she can see how _young_ the Commander actually is. She might not be more than a year or two older than Clarke, now that she thinks about it. Her face is smooth and un-wrinkled, her eyes bright green in the midst of the dark paint surrounding them (Clarke is reminded distinctly of the forest spilling endlessly over this land).

“You say you can turn Reapers back into men?” She asks, and Clarke is struck once again with how girlish her voice sounds, when she’s speaking English. In her native tongue her words were barely more than a growl, pulling harsh syllables and sharp sounds from the very back of her throat. But speaking in English, Clarke recognizes the distinct lack of dramatic effect within her intonation, and she can sense that it makes the Commander slightly uncomfortable. Her words hold less power with Clarke than they do among her warriors, and that doesn’t make her happy.

(And even though the Commander’s face is pulled taught, emanating extreme hostility, Clarke can’t help but picture what she might look like, were she to smile.)

Clarke swallows and nods. “Yes,” she says a moment later. She doesn’t move from her spot, though she knows the Commander is once again trying to intimidate her into submission. The lack of space between them makes the air crackle with a distinctly uncomfortable tension, and were Clarke standing in front of anyone else, she would not hesitate to back away as quickly as possible.

But she is among enemies here, not friends. And she must not submit.

The Commander snarls. “Then prove it,” she hisses. “Show me Lincoln.”

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr.](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	2. Constantly Mistaken for a Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So how long have you been boning the Commander, Clarke?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Monday, February 26th: Constantly Mistaken for a Couple**

____________________

 _(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,_  
_I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,_  
_I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,_  
_I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)_

____________________

“So how long have you been boning the Commander, Clarke?” Clarke’s head shoots up from the sketch she had been so intensely focusing on only moments before. For the past few weeks, she has been attempting to draw her own maps of the _Trikru_ land surrounding the Ark, marking a path between the Grounder camp, Mount Weather, Tondc, and the dropship. And after their most recent run-in with the grotesque and deadly _pauna,_ she has been carefully and religiously marking up its territory, too. No need for anyone else to wander into that part of the woods by accident, again; not when it can be avoided.

Her sketches are rough, and she knows they need work, but Lexa has recently begun to allow her access to the plethora of maps of which she herself is in possession (perhaps as a thank you for saving her life, though she would never admit such a thing out loud), and they’ve proven unbelievably helpful. Clarke has taken to bringing her work inside the Commander’s tent on most afternoons, so she may compare her work with those of the _Trikru_ scouts. Her maps are shoddily-constructed, but under Lexa’s tutelage and with the near-perfect examples available to her, they are slowly improving.

“Octavia…” Clarke says carefully, in a quiet warning, tucking her pencil (a rare luxury, down here, and a gift from Lexa to aid in her studies) into the pages of her notebook.

Octavia stands above her decked out in full _Trikru_ garb, with her clothes dark and leather-worn, her face darkly painted. She has been especially eager to prove herself useful in this brave new world, and under Lincoln and Indra’s supervision her lithe body has transformed into a wall of skilled muscle. She trains day-in and day-out with the rest of the Grounder army. She’s weaker than the rest of them — a combination of the Ark’s poor-nutrition and her forced, cramped imprisonment for so many years — so she loses every sparring match she’s thrown into. Yet, she refuses to quit. She gets knocked into the dirt until her arms are littered with bruises and her mouth is full of blood, but still she staggers to her feet. Clarke knows how determined she is to prove she belongs; how desperate she is to fit in; how much she has been itching for the opportunity of a real battle.

“Come on, Princess,” Octavia says with a smirk. With her hair pulled off her face and her own coat of war paint masking her eyes, she looks much older than her age. Clarke is struck — not for the first time — with the implications of what life on the ground can do to the innocence of youth.

Then again, Octavia has never really been allowed an ‘innocent’ existence.

“It’s hardly a secret,” she continues, her gaze never once straying from Clarke’s face. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Clarke clenches her jaw to fight a blush. _Baseless rumors,_ she thinks angrily. _There’s nothing to them._

(Not that Lexa isn’t _attractive,_ per se. Not that she can’t be _kind_ , when she wants to be. Not that Clarke hasn’t noticed the way Lexa’s eyes linger on her face, on her lips, for just half a beat too long whenever they’re—)

She shakes herself. “Well, _I_ don’t want to talk about it,” she says firmly, turning her attention back to her work. She hopes that this will mark the definitive end to their conversation, but of course, she has no such luck.

“What, is she not good in bed or something?”

Clarke bristles, her nostrils flaring. “Indra might actually kill you if she hears you talking like that about the Commander,” she warns quietly. Though she continues to stare down at the pages in front of her, her eyes barely register the images. She makes no move to pick up her discarded pencil.

“Indra isn’t here, is she?”

At that, Clarke looks up at her. “There’s nothing going on, Octavia,” she says, voice quiet. She’s mindful of all the ears nearby, the potential eavesdroppers lurking around them. “You’re hearing rumors. That’s it. The Commander and I are working together. We _have_ to work together, to defeat the Mountain. That’s our only priority.”

Octavia looks _very_ skeptical, and Clarke thinks she may have gone just a step too far in her vehement denial. “You’re in her tent, like… _all_ the time,” Octavia reasons. “Her guards let you in without even looking at you, now. I know they do; I saw them do it.”

“Like I said, we’re working together.”

“She treats you like one of her advisors.”

Clarke nods. “She has people in the Mountain, too. We both want to get them back, at whatever cost.”

Octavia tilts her head in contemplation. “She listens to you, right?”

Clarke pauses. “She listens when I speak,” she agrees slowly. “But she doesn’t usually do what I ask. That’s about all I can hope for.”

Octavia finally lowers herself to the log situated directly across from Clarke’s spot. She perches there with her hands on her knees, her sword rising high over her shoulder. “She promised to get Bellamy out,” she says steadily, but Clarke can see the fear hiding just behind her eyes. “Is she going to?”

Clarke wants to lie, more than anything. She wants to say, _Yes, absolutely we’ll get him out,_ because she wants nothing more than for that to be the truth. Because in all honesty, she relies on Bellamy more than she might like to admit; he is a strong friend, loyal almost to a fault, but a dedicated and commanding leader. And Clarke has found herself floundering, out here, without his steady guidance. She misses him terribly, but more than that, she _desperately_ needs him. The thought that she may never get to see him again is both unconscionable and debilitating.

She wants to lie to Octavia, to open her mouth and say with full confidence that the next time they both see Bellamy, he will be safe, unhurt, and alive. She wants to lie, but finds that she can’t. “We’re going to try,” she finally admits.

Octavia takes a sharp inhale through her nose. Her face is set with grim determination, but she nods a few times, and Clarke knows that she appreciates her honesty. “And are you sleeping with the Commander to help him, or is she just using you to get access to _Skaikru_ weaponry?”

A muscle in Clarke’s jaw twitches. “I’m not sleeping with her,” she states with finality. “And Lexa wouldn’t do that.”

Something in Octavia’s expression shifts — a brief flash of recognition — before it falls back into severity. “You don’t know her,” she warns quietly. “You don’t know _what_ she’d do.”

“I know enough,” Clarke says defensively. “The Commander keeps her word. And she needs this alliance as much as we do.”

“All I’m saying is be careful, Clarke. Okay? You still don’t understand them. You have no idea what life has been like for the _Trikru_. They’ve grown up in fear, under the Mountain. Warriors and children stolen in the dead of night; their people slaughtered and killed without mercy or discretion. They’ve been taught all their lives to do _anything_ they can to survive.” She stares at Clarke with such intensity that Clarke has to shift in her seat to avoid withering under the gaze. “Never forget that.”

____________________

The next time Clarke receives an over-involved and condescending talking-to, it’s nearly a week later. She’s on her way to meet with Lexa — _The Commander,_ her brain quickly corrects — for what appears to be an urgent meeting. They’ve had no word from Bellamy for days, now, and they have to decide whether or not to strike the Mountain quickly, while they still have the element of surprise, or to wait longer on the belief that their inside man can complete his task. Clarke believes Bellamy is alive; Lexa cautions her against such naïve optimism. Clarke thinks a full-frontal assault is too risky; Lexa believes her soldiers will not take kindly to being forced to wait any longer for an imminent war.

So Clarke is only just approaching the entrance to the _Trikru_ camp, on her way to try and convince the head of an army to have just a little more patience, when she hears someone behind her, calling her name. She turns and catches sight of Raven, hurrying towards her with a heavy limp, wincing occasionally as her brace seems to rub her the wrong way. But her jaw is set in determination, and her strides are confident, and Clarke just _knows_ that this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

“Raven,” Clarke nods in greeting. “Can this wait? I’m late for a meeting with—”

“With the _Commander_ , right?” Raven asks, finally pulling to a stop directly in front of Clarke. She sneers as she says the title, and Clarke has to work hard to keep her face impassive.

“Have you heard anything from Bellamy?” She asks instead, trying to push the conversation away from what’s sure to amount to a violent eruption.

Raven shakes her head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “Then why _are_ you here?”

At her sides, Raven’s hands ball into fists. “I’m here…” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m here because I think you’re being reckless, and you have to stop it.”

Clarke wants to scream. “Not this again,” she sighs. “Look, I know you don’t like it, but it’s too late to back off from this plan. And I’m not about to go back on my word. This alliance is—”

“This isn’t _about_ the alliance!” Raven practically shouts. “This is about _you_ , being stupid and irresponsible and putting all of our lives at risk.”

Clarke grits her teeth. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I really think you _don’t_.” Clarke rolls her eyes, unwilling to stand and listen to the same lecture she’s gotten from her mother, and Jaha, and Kane, and Bellamy, again and again and again. The rest of her people might not think she knows what she’s doing, but Clarke _knows_ that this alliance is the right move. It’s the only way they stand a chance of getting anyone out of the Mountain alive. As she turns to walk away, Raven grabs her by the upper arm, pulling her roughly to a stop.

Clarke glares down at the hand on her arm and tries to shake it off, but Raven holds firm. Clarke growls. “Let go of me, Raven.”

But Raven refuses to budge. “Do you know what people are _saying_ about you?” She hisses, her voice a low and accusatory whisper. “Do you know the way they talk about you around the Ark… the things Lincoln tells Octavia? And she’s a _Grounder_ , Clarke, are you out of your _mind_? She’s the _enemy_.”

Clarke stiffens immediately. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Raven’s fingers dig tightly into her arm, her nails sharp against Clarke’s skin. (She’ll surely be bruised tomorrow.) “After everything I went through… after all the _shit_ _you_ put me through… after _Finn_ … after you _killed him_ …” Raven’s eyes flash with a burning sort of fire, barely-contained. “Haven’t you done _enough_?”

“I didn’t think my personal life was any of your business.”

“If it concerns our people, it _is_ my business. You’re going to get us all _killed_ at this rate.”

So focused are they on their stand-off that they don’t even notice when they’re no longer alone. Someone clears their throat from somewhere off to the right, and Clarke immediately blinks, turning her attention towards the newcomer.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lexa asks carefully, her voice hard and her eyes suspicious. She is flanked by her usual two-guard formation, and though the men loiter near the entrance to camp, they never once take their eyes off of their Commander.

Lexa watches Raven warily, a muscle in her neck twitching with something that hints at carefully-suppressed ire. Her eyes flick down to Raven’s hand on Clarke’s arm, and her expression darkens.

Raven immediately takes a step back and removes her hand. She brings it instead down to rest on the set of tools she has tucked into her belt; her version of weaponry, of a gun on the hip. It might be an unconscious move, but Clarke thinks it’s more likely a subtle warning. “Commander,” she nods once in greeting, not bothering to answer her question.

Lexa turns her gaze to Clarke, then, and her approach is much more careful. “Are you alright, Clarke?” She asks, her voice quiet and almost soft. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke can see the way Raven’s fingers tighten around her wrench at the tone of the Commander’s query.

Clarke’s smile is small and tight. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” Lexa spares another glance in Raven’s direction before addressing Clarke once more. “I was wondering if you might accompany me to my tent? I believe we had a meeting scheduled, and I would like your input on our plan of attack.”

Clarke nods and follows one step behind Lexa all the way back to her tent. She doesn’t look behind her, not one time the entire walk back, though she knows that were she to turn around, she would surely see Raven off in the distance, face flushed red with fury.

____________________

Clarke decides to spend the night before the assault on Mount Weather inside the Grounder camp. The Ark is too far from the frontlines, and she and Lexa both agree that the more compact their army before battle, the greater their chance for victory. And also, frankly speaking, Clarke feels like she really needs to be there. In war, things change with barely a moment’s notice; she needs to be at the center of the action if she wishes to take part in this revolution.

But for now, Clarke stands inside her quarters on the Ark, ostensibly looking for any last items she may need before tomorrow’s campaign. She shivers as she looks around the barren room she once called home. It’s dark, and cold, and it holds a distinct smell of unfiltered metal that at one point she never would have noticed, but which now makes her head ache with a dull, pounding throb. After so many days outside, breathing the fresh air, the purified air pumping through the Ark’s metal vents feels like _poison_. She finds — with some surprise — that she hates the artificial lighting of the Ark’s generator-powered-systems; hates the way the air tastes stale and filtered; hates the way she feels so trapped, like she can’t escape, like she’s back in prison, stuck in a metal box orbiting the Earth with no hope of ever touching solid ground.

It surprises her how much she hates it, here. It’s unexpected, and she’s not quite sure how to feel about it. She’s almost _grateful_ for the opportunity to sleep outside, in the open air, and for an excuse which affords her that opportunity. It might be colder outdoors than within the Ark’s insulated structure, but with furs supplied by the Grounders and fires that are never left unattended, never allowed to flicker out, Clarke finds that warmth is hardly ever a real issue.

Lexa has offered her a bed inside her own tent for the upcoming night, but Clarke has thus far been hesitant to accept, for several reasons. Firstly, with all of the rumors swirling around about the true nature and extent of their relationship, spending the night in the Commander’s private tent — even if they _are_ in separate beds — would surely raise more than a few eyebrows. Secondly, Clarke’s not entirely sure how _comfortable_ she would be sharing sleeping quarters with Lexa so soon after their ill-fated kiss. That’s not to say that Clarke believes Lexa would try anything _untoward_ , with her. That’s not to say that Clarke believes Lexa would ask or demand anything of her at _all_. But the tension between them has only built in the aftermath of their kiss (Clarke had somehow imagined — when she had dared to imagine it at all — that any sort of romantic interaction between them would signal a _relief_ ; a _bursting-of-the-dams_ , so to speak). Instead of respite, Clarke has only felt strain. She can’t yet tell whether or not that strain is positive or negative.

And thirdly, Clarke’s not sure how she can _possibly_ be expected to share a tent with Lexa for nearly an entire day without somehow winding up in bed with her. Because the terrible truth of the matter is that Clarke is pretty hopelessly, _desperately_ attracted to Lexa. So much so that a romantic entanglement seems almost inevitable, at this point. And though Lexa has been nothing but respectful of her wishes ever since Clarke pulled away from their kiss, Clarke can’t pretend that she doesn’t see the desire burning in Lexa’s eyes, the unabashed attraction etched so clearly into the features of her face. And she can’t pretend that seeing such a blatant display of Lexa’s feelings doesn’t stir something within _her_ , too.

So though the Commander has offered her a warm bed of her own, Clarke is hesitant to accept it. She knows that, were she to refuse the offer, Lexa wouldn’t hold it against her, and it wouldn’t strain the relationship between _Trikru_ and _Skaikru_. She would make arrangements for Clarke to sleep wherever she was most comfortable, in whatever bed best suited her.

But somehow, that almost makes it worse.

There’s a knock at her door, and it’s only then that Clarke shakes herself and realizes she has been staring at a blank wall for nearly ten minutes. She turns around quickly and sees her mother standing in the doorway, a small but nervous smile on her face.

Clarke instinctively shoulders her backpack a little higher. Her fingers wrap around the strap, like she might have to make a break for it at any moment.

Her mother’s eyes don’t miss the movement, and Clarke feels a pang of guilt strike through her stomach at the way Abby’s lips seem to tighten at the corners. She shakes it off easily, forcing her expression back into something resembling a smile. Clarke hesitantly returns the gesture.

“Just wanted to come see you off,” Abby explains quietly, taking a step into Clarke’s room.

Clarke nods and pulls her bag off her shoulder, using it as an excuse not to meet her mother’s gaze. She drops down onto the bed and rifles through it, compiling a mental inventory of everything she thinks she’s going to need. She brings a hand down to touch the butt of her gun, and finds herself immediately relaxing at the feel of the comforting and familiar metal.

“Have everything you need?” Abby asks, and Clarke is immediately struck by a flashing memory — _Her mom, standing at her bedroom door, her dad humming mindlessly from somewhere in the main room. “Do you have everything you need?” She asks, holding out a packed lunch for Clarke to grab on her way to school._

She shakes her head to dispel the image as another flood of guilt roils her stomach. “I think so,” she says, voice carefully even.

Abby looks out of place in Clarke’s room. She shifts from side to side where she stands and tucks her hands into her pockets, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “Good,” she says slowly. “That’s good.”

Clarke can only pantomime at packing her things for so long. Eventually, when the silence between them grows too unbearable (and it becomes obvious that Abby has no intention of leaving of her own accord), Clarke zips up her bag and stands. “Well…” She says awkwardly, “I should go. Lexa’s guards are waiting outside to take me to Camp.”

Abby nods, and if Clarke isn’t mistaken her throat looks a little tight, too. “Okay. Well… travel safe, Sweetie.”

Clarke’s smile is strained as she makes to step around her mother, but as soon as she tries, Abby moves quickly, blocking her path. Clarke frowns. “Mom?” She asks. “What are you doing?”

Abby shakes her head, finally pulling her hands out of her pockets. “Nothing,” she says. “Nothing. It’s just…” She brings her hands up to rest on Clarke’s shoulders, and Clarke has to fight the urge to shrug out from underneath them. “You know you can tell me anything, Clarke. Right?”

Clarke stares at her mother with barely-disguised confusion. “Okay…” she says slowly, “sure. I know that.”

Abby still looks hesitant. “And if… if you had _anything_ to tell me, anything at all… you _would_. Right?”

Clarke’s brow furrows. “I told the Council what our plan of attack is, tomorrow. The Commander and her army will—”

“Not the Council, Clarke. I meant me. Your mother.”

“Oh.” A pause, as Clarke weighs her words. “I suppose,” she finally acquiesces.

Abby smiles at her, with eyes full of something close to tears. She brings a hand up to cup Clarke’s face. “All I want is your happiness. You know that, right?”

“I know, Mom.”

Abby looks at her, then, but Clarke gets the distinct impression that she isn’t seeing her. Her eyes have glazed over; like she’s stuck in some long-forgotten memory. “So young…” She murmurs quietly. “So young, and you’ve already lived a thousand lifetimes. You’ve experienced more pain than any one person should ever have to experience.” Clarke wants to interject, wants to speak up and say, _Yeah, and last I checked most of that was **your** fault, _ but she bites her tongue until she tastes blood, instead. Abby continues, unaware of her daughter’s inner turmoil, “If you’ve found happiness, down here…” She shakes her head. “If the Commander makes you happy…”

Clarke blinks quickly, eyes wide with the sudden feeling of inescapable panic. Rumors circulating the Grounder camp are one thing, but having her _mother_ know about her potential-romantic-partners is just a step too far. “No, Mom,” she hastens to deny, “we aren’t—”

But Abby interrupts her. “I can learn to accept it,” she says with determination. “If she’s who you want… If she makes you happy… I’ll learn. I can adapt. I just…” Her thumb brushes against Clarke’s cheek, again. “I just want you to know that you can come to me. We might be fighting for our lives, down here, but I’m still your mother. And I want you to know that you can come to me. About anything.”

Clarke swallows around the bile in her throat. She’s not sure what she’s feeling — some sickly combination of guilt, fear, anxiety, panic, and realization — but whatever it is, she knows she doesn’t like it. She needs to get out of this situation, and fast. She can’t breathe, in here.

“Okay, Mom,” she says softly. “Okay.”

Abby smiles and finally, finally lets her go.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	3. At Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, “I’m working.”
> 
> “You’re _always_ working.”
> 
> “The job of the Commander is never over.”
> 
> “Not even when you have a beautiful woman trying to take you to bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tuesday, February 27th: At Work**
> 
> This takes place sometime shortly after the events of Season 3a. Canon-divergent from 3x07. Rated M.

____________________

 _I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,_  
_I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,_  
 _I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,_  
 _I think whoever I see must be happy._

____________________

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, “I’m working.”

“You’re _always_ working,” Clarke says disapprovingly. She’s standing behind Lexa, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, the hard back of Lexa’s chair digging into the fleshy part of her stomach. She presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses to the sharp line of Lexa’s jaw, and Clarke can feel more than she can see the way Lexa smiles in response.

“The job of the Commander is never over,” she says, keeping her eyes on the work spread out in front of her, though her tone indicates that she’s more than a little distracted.

“Not even when you have a beautiful woman trying to take you to bed?”

Lexa chuckles a little as Clarke places another kiss on her neck. “Unfortunately.”

Clarke frowns as she brushes her nose against the shell of Lexa’s ear. “You’re no fun,” she grumbles, but still, she pulls away. It isn’t _Lexa’s_ fault, after all, that she’s been so swamped with work recently.

Well… that’s not entirely true, if Clarke takes the time to think about it. In a way it _is_ her fault. Killing the Ice Queen had thrown the entirety of _Azgeda_ into chaos. And though Roan ascended to the throne easily and with no direct challengers (even Ontari, who looked ready to murder everyone in sight on the day of his coronation), that doesn’t mean that it has been a _smooth_ transition of power. There are many warriors left in _Azgeda_ territory still loyal to the dead Queen; many who vow to seek revenge in her name. Roan assures the Ambassadors that he is doing the best he can at ferreting out the traitors, but it is slow, difficult work. Two seasons have passed since the Queen was forcibly deposed, and still, his hold upon his own people is tenuous at best. He does what he can, but Clarke worries it won’t be enough.

All throughout the Coalition, tiny spats of violence have been sparking up. Villages raiding villages, neighbors turning on neighbors, and though the incidents are mostly isolated to _Azgeda_ territory, the destabilization has far-reaching implications for the other Clans. The Ambassadors and Clan leaders worry that violence within _Azgeda_ will spread to their own people. The Ice Nation seems perched on the brink of a full-blow Civil War, and though Lexa stands by the actions she took and her decision to recognize the legitimacy of Roan’s rule in the face of his mother’s untimely death, Clarke knows that the guilt still weighs heavily upon her. She is not a leader who takes the deaths of her citizens lightly — even ones who are blatantly and openly mutinous, like _Azgeda_.

Clarke once said that she has no kill marks because her back isn’t big enough to fit a scar for every life she’s responsible for ending. She thinks Lexa wouldn’t have enough room even if she let them carve up her entire body.

Clarke falls into the seat across from her companion at the cluttered table in the Commander’s private rooms — the place Lexa prefers to do most of her work — and watches her closely. Lexa is bent low over her paperwork, her brow furrowed in concentration. But Clarke can still see the faintest hint of a flush on her cheeks — evidence of the effectiveness of her earlier ministrations, no doubt. The sight makes her glow with pride. Usually Lexa’s external appearance is one of complete control; it has to be, given the precariousness of her rule. It’s not often that _Heda_ allows herself to appear flustered and affected by minor acts of romance and intimacy. Though admittedly she _has_ been learning to let go more and more when she’s alone in Clarke’s presence.

Clarke is quickly becoming addicted to the sight. She is quickly becoming addicted to the abrupt transition between Lexa’s two personas; to the way _Heda_ falls away as _Lexa_ takes her place, the severity melting into kindness, the professional façade melting into something like _love_. She is quickly becoming addicted to the sounds Lexa makes, when she surprises her with a kiss late in the afternoon; to the way Lexa’s back arches off the bed as her hips struggle to get closer to Clarke’s touch.

And _God_ , how Clarke has gotten addicted to the way Lexa looks when she touches her. A soft hand on her arm; a quick and fleeting kiss to the cheek; nails scratching along her back; teeth biting hard into the skin of her hip, scattering black and blue bruises in places no one else will ever see. The way Lexa looks at her when Clarke lowers her mouth to her body.

Though their sex is something of a regular occurrence, at this point (and what a wonderful occurrence it is), Clarke still isn’t sure if Lexa is in love with her. Not that it _matters_ , really — she hardly needs to be _in love_ with someone to enjoy having sex with them — but she strongly suspects that Lexa _might_ be in love with her. She has suspected it ever since Lexa had suggested Clarke stay in Polis, rather than return to Arkadia and fall behind the blockade. She has suspected it ever since Lexa said, _“May we meet again,”_ while they were saying their final goodbyes, and Clarke had thought, _This is it; I’ll never get another chance._ She has suspected it ever since Lexa’s lips quivered against her own, ever since her words came in gasping little breaths, ever since she gripped Clarke’s face in her hands like she was afraid if she let go she would lose her forever.

Clarke kissed her and Lexa melted from it and all of the tension and the power and the swirling, roiling emotions that had been churning between them for months finally, _finally_ broke. And when Clarke’s fingers slipped inside her, when Lexa gasped and moaned her name… she had broken a little bit, too.

She decided to stay on this side of the blockade. Because what other choice did she have, really? She couldn’t live off of _Maybe Somedays_ and _May We Meet Agains_ forever _._ Life on the ground was harsh, and cruel, and there was no guarantee of survival. Watching Lexa fight to the death and come within an inch of her life was a sharp reminder of that fact.

She decided to stay on this side of the blockade, and though the situations in both Arkadia and _Azgeda_ now seem to be deteriorating, Clarke feels almost guilty in the face of her own bright happiness.

So, Clarke strongly suspects that Lexa might be in love with her, and she finds great relief in that fact, considering she is absolutely head-over-heels, herself. It’s a comforting sort of knowledge: that she loves and is loved in return. Lexa might not have said it yet — not in so many words, at least — but she expresses her love in a million other ways. She says it in the way she slips quietly from their shared bed in the morning, feet impossibly soft on the cold ground so as not to wake her still-sleeping companion. She says it in the way she coaxes pleasure from Clarke’s body whenever she gets the chance, determined to give and give and give until Clarke is a shaking, shivering mess. She says it in the way she shoots Clarke sly smiles, meant only for her, in the midst of some of Titus’ longer rants. She says it in the way her voice gets quiet and hopeful whenever they talk about the future they hope to build, together.

So Lexa may not have said that she loves her out loud, but actions speak louder than words, and Lexa’s actions have been screaming _love love love_ at her for months.

And Clarke loves her. She knows that she does. So that’s all that matters.

Clarke’s face melts into an easy smile and she laughs a little, to herself, her happiness bubbling up until she can’t quite stop the sound. Lexa looks up from her papers, and though she frowns slightly in confusion, she, too, is smiling. “What’s so funny?” She asks, her voice easy and relaxed and happy, and Clarke feels her chest swell with that undeniable feeling of _love_ once again.

Clarke shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says truthfully. “I just like watching you work.”

____________________

Clarke knows how all-encompassing the job of the Commander is. She has to, with how often Lexa has to leave meals early, with how many nights she falls asleep in the Commander’s bed alone, wrapped in blankets that smell like her to compensate for missing out on the real thing.

Clarke knows how all-encompassing the job of the Commander is, and usually, she doesn’t mind it. She understands that Lexa’s duties are, first and foremost, to her people and the sanctity of the Coalition. Clarke understands this. And she knows that, were their situations reversed, Lexa would be just as understanding of any commitments she might find unavoidable.

So, Clarke understands that Lexa’s job is pressing, and urgent, and that it’s really less of a _job_ and much more of an _existence_. That doesn’t mean she’s happy to hear a sharp pounding on Lexa’s door in the goddamn middle of the night.

Were they simply sleeping, it might have been another story entirely. Were they simply sleeping, Clarke could roll over and go back to sleep as soon as Lexa slipped from the room, and her night would be otherwise largely undisturbed. But tonight was _supposed_ to be one of Lexa’s all-too-uncommon nights off, and they had been taking extraordinary advantage of that fact. So this particular interruption is… ruder than most, in Clarke’s opinion.

Clarke groans in particularly acute frustration as Lexa immediately withdraws from her, removing her sinfully skilled mouth and fingers from Clarke’s body. She stands from the bed at once, pausing only long enough to throw on a long, flowing night dress before she is at the door, fully composed. Clarke, on the other hand, remains sprawled out on Lexa’s gigantic bed (completely naked, by the way), her pulse racing and her legs twitching with the agony of suddenly-averted release. There had been no preamble, no discussion, no slow come-down. Clarke throws an arm over her eyes and bites down hard on her lip to try and stop her trembling.

“Titus,” Lexa says quietly, her voice betraying no hint of the activities she had been engaging in only moments before. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, _Heda_ ,” Titus says with a low bow, “but it is about Adela.” If he is aware of Clarke’s presence within the room, he chooses to ignore it, which Clarke thinks is probably for the best.

Clarke is slowly gaining the self-awareness to realize that she should probably be wearing clothes, at this point. She moves quietly around Lexa’s bedroom, pulling her own clothes back on, keeping one ear tuned to the conversation taking place only feet from her.

“Her fever has worsened in the past few hours,” Titus continues. “They fear she may not make it through the night.”

Lexa hums quietly, and though Clarke can’t see her face, she can imagine her expression severe and her jaw set tight, the way it always is when she’s thinking. “Clarke,” she says, turning back towards her bed. Clarke, thankfully, has somehow managed to pull together something resembling a presentable ensemble. Titus still averts his gaze pointedly to the ceiling. Clarke wants to slap him. “I would like your assistance, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, hoping that the rough edge to her voice will be attributed to sleep, and not the effort of choking down pleasurable screams for the past forty-five minutes. If the look Titus shoots her on the way out the door is any indication, she is far from successful.

 

 

Adela, it turns out, is one of Lexa’s _Natblida_. She’s small, which is why Clarke thinks she didn’t recognize her name — she’s been trying to learn the names and faces of all of Lexa’s pupils, but she’s had more success with the older ones, those who seem willing and even eager to converse with her. The younger ones still seem to cower, whenever she’s near. (She hears them whisper _Wanheda_ sometimes, as she passes by their training grounds, and she tries not to let it show just how deeply upsetting it is to hear the sound of her tragically-earned moniker coming out of the mouths of children.)

At the sight of the feverish child lying motionless on the bed, any thought of returning to the warmth and comfort of Lexa’s arms anytime in the next few hours immediately flies out of Clarke’s head. She feels the doctor within her stir, and she allows her practiced movements to take over almost without thinking, examining the medicines available to her, walking around the girl’s bedside, gently taking her temperature, checking her vitals. Titus wasn’t joking — she feels like a furnace. Clarke frowns down at the tiny body, and feels sympathy well within her.

She shakes herself. _No time for that now._

Clarke takes another look at the medicines gathered around them, her eyes scanning tables and reading bottles. She approaches the table nearest and starts smelling the different herbs, looking for those she recognizes as helpful. The sight of a bowl on the ground near the bed, stained a deep and ugly shade of black, makes her do a double take. _“Em medo drein au?”_ She asks, quickly and sharply, wincing at the clunky formation of her _Trigedasleng_. The Healers blink at her in confusion, and Clarke looks helplessly toward Lexa. “Have they been bleeding her?” She asks, this time in English.

She hears Lexa turn and repeat her question to the girl’s Healers, and she grits her teeth at the “ _Sha”_ she gets in response.

Clarke slowly and carefully unclenches her jaw. “They shouldn’t do that,” she says quietly to Lexa. “They should _never_ do that. A body needs all the blood it can get when it’s fighting off infection. Bleeding her will only make her sicker.”

Lexa nods and translates her message. The two Healers seem a little disgruntled, now, at the appearance of this _Skaikru_ woman who is trying to tell them how to do their jobs, ordering them around in _Gonasleng._ They say nothing, though. They wouldn’t dare talk back to _Wanheda_ ; not in the presence of their Commander.

“ _Skaikru_ medicine is more advanced than _Trikru_ medicine,” Clarke says by way of explanation, now rifling in earnest through the herbs and potions that lay out about the room. “I know they can’t understand me, but they should _at least_ believe me. I know what I’m doing.” She growls in frustration and pushes the useless items to the side. “Lexa,” she says, turning back to her (and forgetting, in her haste, to use her proper title), “I need you to go inside my bag. There’s a bottle of pills, in there — it’s the only one, you’ll find it right away. It’ll say _‘acetaminophen’_ on it. You got that? Acetaminophen.”

Lexa nods once. “I understand.”

“Good. Grab that, bring it back here.” She looks down at the girl on the bed and softly brushes her damp hair off of her flushed forehead. “She has the flu. She just needs rest and some help taming her fever. As long as we get her to swallow the medicine soon, and as long as we keep her hydrated, she should be fine within a couple days.”

Lexa moves toward the door at once, but Titus stops her with a hand on her arm. “ _Heda_ ,” he says imploringly, glancing at Clarke, “you don’t need to fetch—”

“I know where it is, Titus,” Lexa cuts him off sharply. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Titus watches her go with an unhappy frown on his face. Clarke, even in the midst of her work, can’t help but be a little pleased by it.

 

 

Many sleepless hours later — once the girl’s fever has finally broken, and her regular Healers have taken over monitoring duties — Lexa leads an exhausted and bedraggled Clarke back to her chambers. Clarke’s feet drag heavily on the ground, and Lexa guides her with a gentle hand on her lower back.

Once they’re finally back inside, Clarke kicks off her shoes and immediately groans. “ _God_ , I’m exhausted.” She stifles a yawn behind her hand, already trudging back to the warm and inviting bed she’d had to so brusquely vacate what feels like years ago. She sits on the furs with a heavy groan and starts to struggle with her pants. Finding them stubbornly in-place and her own body too tired to continue fighting to remove them, she debates whether or not she should just pass out right now, and leave the task until morning, when Lexa’s soft and sure fingers cover her own.

Clarke looks up at her and immediately relaxes. She allows herself to sink back into the bed as Lexa kneels down in front of her and slowly, gently, pulls her clothing from her body. There’s nothing sexual to the act, yet Clarke still shivers at the easy and unexpected intimacy of it all.

“Six hours ago my Healers thought that girl was all but dead,” Lexa practically whispers, once she’s managed to work Clarke’s pants completely off of her legs. “Now, they say she’ll make a full recovery.” She looks up, her eyes alight with something like a twinkle. “You did something really amazing tonight, Clarke. Thank you.”

Clarke shakes her head. “I just did whatever I could.”

“It was more than that.”

Clarke hums and closes her eyes. Lexa’s hands slide up her sides, her fingers hooking on the bottom of Clarke’s shirt as she pulls it off of her. Naked on Lexa’s bed once more, Clarke finds that all she really wants to do is sleep. She yawns again and wriggles herself underneath some of the lighter furs — it’s a fairly warm night, for this time of year, and Lexa always runs hot anyway. She can hear the sounds of Lexa moving around her own room, the sounds of boots sliding off feet and clothing _thumping_ heavily onto the floor.

By the time Lexa slides into bed with her, Clarke is struggling to keep her eyes open. Bone-tired as she is, she’s still not quite ready to go to sleep, just yet. They so rarely get the chance to talk like this: tired and exposed and uninhibited. She wants to stay awake to experience it.

Lexa smiles at her, no doubt endeared by the sleepiness of her expression. Clarke pouts until Lexa laughs and presses a light kiss to her forehead.

When she pulls back, Clarke asks, around a yawn, “Do you think your Healers will ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what?”

“For taking charge like that, without even asking. Insulting their tactics.”

“Your tactics saved Adela’s life.”

“I just gave her some medicine. Really, anyone could have done it.”

“And yet you’re the one who did.” Lexa smiles, her fingers reaching out to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Clarke’s eyes. “My Healers would be foolish if they chose to ignore superior practices simply because of _pride_. They’re smarter than that. I wouldn’t keep them around otherwise.” She pauses momentarily, though her fingers continue to comb lightly through Clarke’s hair. “But your medicine,” she says softly, her hands warm against Clarke’s skin, “it is… _impressive_.”

Clarke smiles even as she stifles another yawn. “Your medicine is extremely advanced for what you’re working with, but with our technology…” She shrugs. “We have an advantage.”

“Can you get more of it?” Lexa asks. “I can’t imagine how it might help the other Clans if they knew…”

But Clarke shakes her head, and Lexa drifts off. “I don’t know how we’d get any more,” she admits. “Whatever supplies we had on the Ark… a lot of them were lost, in the crash. And the stuff that we _do_ have is very regulated; it’s only to be used for emergencies. My mom gave me a full bottle just in case something happened while I was in Polis. I’m not really _supposed_ to have it, not that much, at least, but… well, right now I’m glad she insisted.”

Lexa looks thoughtful. “Do you not have anyone amongst your people who could use what you do have to make more? Raven, or your mother, maybe?”

“I…” Clarke blinks a few times. “I hadn’t thought of that. But that’s a really good idea. We should look into th-that,” she says, her words interrupted by a loud yawn. “But in the morning, maybe? Or…” She glances out the window, noting the early-morning sunshine streaming through the curtains. “Or maybe _tomorrow_ morning? I want to sleep for about a full day, after last night.”

“Do you really?” Lexa inches forward under the covers, until her bare knees touch Clarke’s. Clarke shivers at the reminder that, less than an arms-length away, Lexa is lying completely naked, too. Lexa has a mischievous glint in her eye when she says, “But we never got to finish what we started…”

Clarke laughs and shakes her head. “I appreciate your dedication, Lexa, but really. I’m exhausted. I just want to close my eyes and—” She’s cut off as Lexa’s lips claim hers in a hard and demanding kiss. The intensity of it surprises Clarke, but she does not pull away immediately. Instead, she lets out a little moan into Lexa’s mouth and allows herself to be rolled over, until Lexa’s body is hovering above her own, pressing her down into the bed’s soft form.

Clarke blinks up at her, clearly surprised, her mouth feeling a little swollen and bruised from the pressure of Lexa’s lips against her own. “What was that for?” She asks in a breathless whisper.

“You were _amazing_ , tonight,” Lexa purrs, swinging one leg over Clarke’s hips so that she ends up straddling her. Clarke gulps but her hands still fall to Lexa’s waist, almost bracingly. “Seeing you… how much you care for our people…” Clarke’s heart gives a little flutter, at that. Lexa shakes her head. _“Meizen, Klark. Badas.”_

Lexa lays her out in her luxurious bed and worships her body for hours, until Clarke is shaking and practically incoherent. Lexa’s mouth does not leave her until Clarke begs her to stop, and even then she seems reluctant to part with her.

Clarke, even in her exhausted state, can’t help but smile at the way Lexa has seemingly been so deeply effected by watching her work. She is relieved to realize that it at least doesn’t just go one way.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	4. Accidental Stimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever she sees Lexa take command of her people — direct a meeting between the Ambassadors, deliver serious yet heartfelt speeches to her _Natblida_ , don her war paint, ride her horse into battle — Clarke can’t quite help the way her body physically reacts.
> 
> It’s starting to get a little embarrassing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wednesday, February 28th: Accidental Stimulation**
> 
> This takes place sometime shortly after the events of Season 3a. Canon-divergent from 3x07. Rated M.

____________________

 _I inhale great draughts of space,_  
_The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine._

 _I am larger, better than I thought,_  
_I did not know I held so much goodness._

____________________

Whenever she sees Lexa take command of her people — direct a meeting between the Ambassadors, deliver serious yet heartfelt speeches to her _Natblida_ , don her war paint, ride her horse into battle — Clarke can’t quite help the way her body physically reacts.

It’s starting to get a little embarrassing.

There’s just something to her, something to the way she looks, standing there, poised in her armor; something to the way her face seems to harden beneath her war paint, turning her to stone; something to the way she drapes herself over her throne, languid and oozing authority and power so effortlessly, so seamlessly; something to the way she wields her sword like it’s an extension of herself.

Clarke has always considered herself an enlightened woman. She likes to think that she doesn’t play into constructed gender roles, that she doesn’t allow herself to succumb to pre-conceived notions of how she should act or speak. She has never enjoyed being made to feel inferior, weaker; the idea of helplessness, of lacking power, even for a moment, sends shivers down her spine — and not the pleasant kind. She enjoys her autonomy and her independence, and she loves Lexa for the ways she so openly works to make them equals in their relationship. Lexa is the Commander, yes, and in the public sphere of both of their responsibilities they must act accordingly. But when they’re by themselves, and the façade has dropped away, and the war paint has been scrubbed off, Lexa can be as soft and as supple, as kind and as gentle as anyone else. _More so_ than anyone else. The way she touches Clarke, easy and forgiving and undemanding. The way she smiles, open and quiet… it’s something Clarke never could have predicted about her, the first time they met. The gentleness of Lexa the woman, not Lexa the Commander, is something she’s still struggling to get used to, but it’s wonderful. And Clarke absolutely loves her for it.

Their sexual encounters are, for the most part, an equal exchange of power. Neither of them necessarily prefers to control or to be controlled; they alternate positions, power, and scenarios based on mood, day, feeling. But most days, Clarke finds that Lexa prefers to give, to lay back and close her eyes and offer herself. Which is absolutely fine by her, since Clarke _certainly_ doesn’t mind taking. And there’s something thrilling to the power of it all, to the way Lexa _relinquishes_ power _to her_ , to the way Clarke is able to slowly and carefully break her down, take her apart, exhaust her. The fact that Lexa is so willing — and eager, almost — to lose herself in Clarke’s touch… it’s extraordinary. Clarke loves it. And she _certainly_ never complains.

But whenever Clarke catches sight of Lexa’s jawline, her eyes bright green under black paint, her shoulders set and her gaze stony… Whenever she sees _Heda_ commanding a room, her power and her authority and her absolute control emanating from her body, exploding outward, taking charge of every little minute interaction that happens in front of her… Whenever Clarke is reminded of the fact that Lexa commands, controls, and orders around thousands and thousands of warriors and citizens; that she has fought her way to the top, and that she maintains her position through stern, definitive, and unwavering action… Well. On those days, Clarke just likes to get fucked. The strong, pressing, submissive kind of fucked. The kind where Lexa holds her wrists down, where she pins Clarke to the table in her War Room and fucks her hard and fast and without preamble, where she pushes Clarke down onto her throne and devours her with her mouth. She’ll leave stains on Clarke’s inner thighs — black wing-like flames, smudged all down creamy, supple skin — and Clarke will leave them there, a burning reminder of their brief but fiery encounter, until later that night when she can open herself to Lexa again.

And the thing is, at first, Lexa doesn’t even _know_ she’s doing it. After the first few times — when Clarke’s arousal had become so horribly distracting that she had to do something about it, anything at all as long as it was _quick and fast and right now_ , and she had dragged Lexa back to their bedroom for a hard, hurried release — she actually has to sit her down and spell it all out for her.

Lexa looks surprised, more than anything. “I thought you didn’t like me like this,” she says, carefully and without accusation. “That you thought I was… not myself.”

Clarke has to shake her head. “I _fell for you_ like this. Those first few months, in the woods…” She reaches out, her hand sliding around to the back of Lexa’s neck. “If we had had a few more weeks, out there…” She drops her voice as her eyes fall to Lexa’s lips. “I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

And Lexa, bless her heart, flushes a little. “Is that right?” She asks quietly. Clarke bites her lip and nods. Lexa’s expression grows just a little darker, just a little more daring. She slides forward on her seat, bringing herself dangerously close to Clarke. They’re in her throne room, the room where the Ambassadors gather, where Lexa listens to her generals and states her decrees. It’s the room that represents the seat of her power as _Heda;_ it’s the room where all of the most important things within the Coalition happen, where all the treaties are hashed out and all wars are declared. It’s a public space — much more public than either of them are really prepared for. Anyone could walk in on them at any moment.

That’s probably part of why Clarke feels so absolutely and undeniably _thrilled_ , at the thought.

They’re in the room where Clarke had kneeled for her Commander, and where Lexa — in a private moment between just the two of them — had kneeled back. The image of herself, kneeling before _Heda_ in this room, makes something in Clarke’s stomach flutter.

“Well,” Lexa says, her mouth an inch from Clarke’s own, “that is something I will have to keep in mind.”

And after that, after Lexa knows just how much her mere presence can affect her… it’s hard to stop.

 

 

There’s the time in Tondc, when a violent scuffle breaks out among two of Lexa’s warriors. She pulls the two men off of each other, her expression dark and murderous. With her sword in her hand and her eyes livid and her lip pulled back in a snarl, she looks dangerous, almost feral.

When the situation has diffused, she strides away from the circle of onlookers, heading off into the forest to clear her head. (Clarke is familiar with Lexa’s need to distance herself, immediately after her rage takes control. She likes to pull away, to draw herself back until she has calmed down. She doesn’t like feeling out of control, incensed, violent. Not when she doesn’t have to; not when she isn’t in the midst of battle.) Clarke follows after her, trails behind her as she makes her way through the trees.

When they are a safe distance away — out of sight and out of earshot — Lexa turns to her suddenly, and before Clarke can even blink her back is pressed against rough bark of a tree, Lexa’s mouth on hers, Lexa’s hand down the front of her pants. She muffles her gasps in the side of Lexa’s neck, and when she finds her release she bites down hard on the strap of Lexa’s shoulder guard, hard enough to leave impressions of her teeth in the dark leather.

 

 

There’s the time in early Spring, when Clarke goes to watch Lexa train with her warriors and then promptly forces her to leave after only twenty-five minutes. After, when they’re lying in bed together, panting and exhausted, Lexa tells her that really, for both of their sakes, it would be best if Clarke did not return to the training grounds.

There’s the time right around when the flowers start to bloom. Clarke has to sit for hours and watch Lexa grow more and more frustrated as the stubborn council of Ambassadors refuses to budge on any of their individual demands. Clarke watches the way Lexa’s expression grows hard, unsympathetic and unyielding. Her jaw twitches with barely-contained fury until finally she erupts and throws them all out, telling them not to return until they have learned not to squabble like children. She is so angry, so worked-up, that Clarke is barely able to drag her back into her own private room before Lexa begins tearing the clothing from her body.

There’s the time she has Lexa take her against her throne; the time Lexa returns from a quick skirmish near the _Boundalankru_ borders and Clarke meets her in the stables, too anxious and relieved to see her home safe to bother waiting for more privacy.

There are dozens of other times, just like those. Too many to recount, really. An almost embarrassing amount, if Clarke were the type of person who was easily embarrassed by her sexuality. (But she is not that type of person, and so is not embarrassed at all.)

____________________

“ _Ha yu, Heda?”_

Lexa looks up from the maps she has been studying and smiles. “I am well, Clarke. Thank you.” Clarke beams as she bends down, kissing Lexa for a few long and soft moments. When she finally pulls away, Lexa’s smile has only grown. “Practicing your _Trigedasleng,_ I take it?” Lexa asks as Clarke moves away from her, kicking off her boots as she makes her way across the room.

“ _Sha, Heda.”_

Lexa shakes her head. “We are equals in here, Clarke. You don’t have to call me your Commander.”

Clarke throws a wink over her shoulder as she pulls her heavy outer layers from her body. “I thought you liked it when I called you my Commander?” She asks teasingly, throwing her thick coat over the back of the couch in the center of the room.

Lexa flushes and turns back to her reading, shifting only a little in her chair at the bright laugh Clarke emits a moment later. She pointedly ignores her, and tries to pretend that she’s still focused on her work.

Once Clarke is outfitted in more comfortable attire, she returns to the table. “Tomak says I should practice whenever I can,” she says, returning them to their earlier conversation. “ _Kigon yo granplei, goufa,_ he said.”

Lexa laughs. “He called you ‘ _goufa’_?”

“Even though I am _incredibly_ hard-working. I know. It’s unfair, really.” Clarke smiles. “So?” She asks. “ _Ha ste ai dula?”_

“It’s…” Lexa clears her throat. “Good. _Os dula, Klark. Yu ste bos.”_

Clarke bites her lip to hide her smile. “I like when you say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know… all hard _k’s,_ no softness.” Clarke leans forward across the table, her elbows perched on the hard wood. “It’s super sexy,” she practically whispers, her eyes hooded and her expression hungry. Her gaze seems permanently fixated on Lexa’s lips. She leans forward, and Lexa sinks into the sensation of Clarke’s soft mouth on her own, of Clarke’s fingers threading through her hair. The paper in her hands flutters uselessly to the table top as Clarke deepens their kiss.

Clarke’s hand moves from the back of her neck to the collar of her shirt, her fingers tugging playfully on the fabric, like it’s some moderate annoyance to her. Lexa’s ears turn bright red and she pulls away all at once, remembering herself. “Clarke,” she cautions in a low voice, “I really need to discuss something with—”

“ _Beja, Heda,”_ Clarke murmurs, and Lexa has to fight back a groan because, truthfully, that isn’t _fair_. “ _Beja.”_

“Clarke…” she warns, a little breathless— “I have… I have to…”

Clarke’s hand slips underneath her shirt, her fingers cold against Lexa’s sides. Her muscles twitch and jump under the feeling, and Lexa shivers. “You really like it when I speak your language, don’t you?” Clarke asks her with a smirk that says she already knows the answer.

Lexa swallows. “It’s… _very_ attractive.”

“ _Miya yo bag, Heda_ ,” Clarke whispers into her ear. “Come to bed and I’ll talk to you all night.”

Lexa is helpless to do anything but obey.

____________________

Sometimes, Clarke has to travel back into _Skaikru_ territory, and when she goes she usually goes alone. Sometimes her trips are for logistical reasons — to sort out some dispute between _Skaikru_ and the surrounding _Trikru_ villages, for example. Sometimes they are for a celebration or birthday or wedding. Sometimes she goes just to visit her mother. Usually, she’s only gone for a few days. But on this particular visit, her attempts at mediation between the nearby village and the remaining _Skaikru_ on the Ark have proven unsuccessful. Tensions have been building within Arkadia for a few days, now, and nothing Clarke does seems to be having any sort of mitigating effect. The _Skaikru_ soldiers are getting restless, walking around uneasily during the day and keeping silent, somber watch by night. Pike, from his cell within the prison block, rants and raves and stomps his feet for anyone who will listen. Bellamy has taken to sleeping with his gun tucked under his pillow.

So she sends for Lexa, because the Commander has authority where she does not, and she thinks that nothing will make the obstinate parties bend towards compromise more than the imposing figure of their Commander, standing amongst them and demanding cooperation.

When Lexa rides into Arkadia, her back straight and her head held high, her red cape covering her head like a giant hood, protecting her from the rain, Clarke’s mouth immediately goes dry. She wears no makeup, no paint, but she still looks ferocious; regal. She dismounts her horse smoothly, and as she strides forward to greet Marcus, her eyes fall to Clarke, standing by her mother’s side. Her expression does not change, but her eyes soften momentarily as she nods in Clarke’s direction. Clarke’s stomach swoops and she feels her knees go weak.

“Commander,” Kane says by way of greeting, gripping Lexa’s forearm tightly.

“Chancellor,” she says back, her voice sounding a little rough. She must be exhausted from the ride, and she might even be a little sick with the hint of an oncoming cold, but she refuses to let it show. She is _Heda;_ she is incorruptible; she has no weakness. She turns then and offers a greeting to the others present. “Doctor Griffin,” a nod to Clarke’s mother. And then, “Ambassador,” to her.

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek to stop a smile that might give them away. “ _Monin hou, Heda,”_

“ _Oso hit choda op nat,”_ Lexa responds, and Clarke feels a shock of thrill run through her at the promise, at the way it’s delivered so casually and so publicly, without prompting. No _Skaikru_ can understand their exchange, and Lexa’s guards are too far away to have possibly overheard them. That just makes it all the more exhilarating.

 _“Sha, Heda,”_ Clarke answers immediately, struggling to keep her voice unaffected and her face impassive, and she feels Lexa’s eyes burn into her own for the briefest of moments before she returns to her official business.

That night, in the cold and dark quiet of Clarke’s quarters — the room her mother still keeps open for her, as if hoping she will someday return to it full-time — they _do_ come together in a fierce, passionate embrace. Clarke rips Lexa’s armor from her body, her cape and pauldron and gauntlets and sword, and then tears through her clothes, desperate to feel Lexa’s warm skin against her own again. She’s been gone for nearly a week, and they have missed each other desperately.

In public, their exchanges are careful. But in private… well. In private, Clarke can have both Lexa and _Heda_ , whenever she wants, whenever she asks. The knowledge of that makes her feel undeniably powerful.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kigon yo granplei, goufa. – “Continue your training, child.”
> 
>  _Ha ste ai dula?_ – “How am I doing?”
> 
>  _Os dula, Klark. Yu ste bos._ – “You’re doing well, Clarke. You’re good.”
> 
>  _Beja, Heda._ – “Please, Commander.”
> 
>  _Monin hou, Heda._ – “Welcome back, Commander.”
> 
>  _Oso hit choda op nat._ – “We will come together tonight.”
> 
> **
> 
> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	5. Rivals in a Secret Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander does not fall in love. She is above such trivial, earthly matters. She is _Heda_ ; she is stone; she is incorruptible.
> 
> She is also in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thursday, March 1st: Rivals in a Secret Relationship**
> 
> This takes place a few months after the events of Season 3a. Canon-divergent from 3x07.

____________________

 _(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,_  
_Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)_

____________________

The Commander does not fall in love. The Commander is a leader, but more importantly she is a symbol to her people. In this world of kill-or-be-killed, any perceived weakness — any perceived exploitable connection — could mean certain death. Kostia was a prime example of that.

The Commander does not fall in love. She is above such trivial, earthly matters. She is _Heda;_ she is stone; she is incorruptible.

She is also in love.

____________________

In all fairness, falling in love was completely accidental. She had come to the firm decision to never again be blinded by such a volatile, unpredictable emotion many years ago. Titus’ lessons — drilled into her since the moment her training began, at age 6 — echoed in her head like an ever-repeating mantra. The other Commanders whispered it in her mind, the words floating through every one of her dreams.

_Hodnes laik kwelnes. Hodnes laik kwelnes._

Love is weakness.

Love, after all, could not save her parents; it could not save her fellow _Natblida_ during her Conclave; it could not save the hundreds of _Trikru_ villagers, those men and women and children she had grown up beside; it could not save Kostia, nor Onya, nor Gostos.

Love is weakness, the other Commanders whisper to her while she sleeps.

But she wakes up in bed next to Clarke, and she thinks, _Love may be weakness, love may not be able to save lives, but living without love did not save any of you, either. I have lived longer, my rule stronger, my people safer. Love may be weakness, but not having it is no guarantee of strength._

So, she never planned on falling in love.

But Lexa has often found that the universe is, more often than not, entirely ambivalent towards even her best-designed plans.

 ____________________

Lexa has been in love for nearly four full seasons when she decides she is fed up. Titus warns her with every breath out of his mouth that she needs to comport herself with more dignity. He cautions her at every turn, alternating between strongly suggesting and outright demanding that she end her relationship with Clarke. _She threatens the strength of your Coalition, Heda,_ he whispers into her ear. _If the other Ambassadors ever found out about your… **dalliances** _ (he spits the word like venom) _with Klark kom Skaikru,_ _they would not hesitate to call for a vote of no confidence._

Lexa listens to him. She must; after all, he is _Fleimkepa,_ her most loyal and trusted advisor. She knows that, truthfully, all he wants is to protect the Flame and the future line of Commanders. But in order to do so, he must also protect her. She believes that he wants what is best for her. Not because he cares about her, but because he cares about the sanctity and safety of her rule.

So she understands his fear. Truthfully, she feels it, too. Every minute she spends with Clarke, she is putting her at risk. The closer they grow, the longer they remain involved, the larger the target upon Clarke’s back.

But Titus’ warnings are pointless, as is Lexa’s fear. Clarke stands at her side during official events; she rides beside the Commander on excursions into the outer territories; she wears the official colors of the Commander during Council meetings; Lexa braids her hair, nearly every morning, with the signature style of _Heda._ They are inextricably linked, constantly united. One cannot be mentioned without the other. And rumors of their suspected romantic connection have been running rampant ever since she allowed _Skaikru_ into the _Kongeda_.

She may wish to protect Clarke, to keep her out of the public eye, to allow her a modicum of privacy within the city of Polis, but Lexa is having to slowly come to terms with the fact that those things may not be possible.

Lexa has been in love for nearly four seasons when she decides she is fed up. She grows weary of Titus’ warnings, weary of pretending publicly (and even privately, on occasion) that her feelings for Clarke do not extend beyond the realm of politely respectful.

She understands the perceptions surrounding them. _Skaikru_ and _Trikru; Heda_ and _Wanheda._ There are those who believe them to be bitter enemies, unable to reconcile their irreconcilable differences. There are those who remember the events at the _Maun_ and believe that that betrayal is insurmountable. There are those who believe that the mythology surrounding _Wanheda_ poses a distinct and present threat to the power of _Heda._ There are those who believe that Lexa should have killed her months ago, and stolen the power from the deaths on Clarke’s conscience.

But those people are fools. And Lexa is tired of indulging them.

Lexa has been in love for nearly four seasons when she returns one afternoon after a long and tiring ride from the _Trikru_ and _Azgeda_ border. Disputes over land titles and available crops have stretched on without end for decades, but Lexa believes she has finally been able to broker a lasting and definitive peace between the two regions. It only took her nearly five years, but if she is ultimately successful, it will all have been worth it.

She has been gone for nearly a fortnight, and all she wants to do is get off of her horse, find Clarke, and sink into a warm bath with her — preferably for the next hour and a half, and preferably with no interruptions or distractions.

So imagine her surprise when the gates of Polis swing open and she’s met with the sight of thousands of citizens flooding every inch of the streets. They are dancing, singing, twirling around each other. Stands overflowing with wood-carved trinkets, blades, clothing, crafts, and spiced meats and cheeses line the roads. There are decorations hanging from buildings and torches lit throughout the city, and if Lexa weren’t seeing it all with her own eyes, she never would have believed it to be real.

Slowly but surely, people start to notice her presence, and right away it’s like a ripple goes through the throng. There’s yelling, and cheering, and people chanting her name, her title. There hadn’t been this many people in the streets of Polis even after they returned, victorious, from their final battle with the Mountain Men. Not even the end of the Great War had prompted such a raucous celebration. It’s all a little overwhelming.

Lexa blinks a few times. “Octavia,” she murmurs to the woman riding at her side (Indra’s Second, out on her first official mission as part of the Commander’s Honor Guard without her First), “what is the meaning of this?”

“I don’t know, _Heda_. But I think…” She pauses for a moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say Clarke had something to do with it.”

Lexa sighs, but she knows it sounds affectionate, rather than exasperated. She’s grateful only Octavia is around to hear her, but even so, the smirk the young woman sends her way makes her shift uncomfortably in her seat. “Of course she does,” Lexa says quietly and it, too, sounds affectionate. She nudges her horse forward through the thick crowd, smiling down at her people as they wave and cheer for her return. (This kind of reception is not one she is used to — nor does she think it is one she necessarily deserves, considering the relative simplicity of her mission — but she cannot deny that she enjoys the adulation, just a little bit.)

It’s slow going, making her way to the stables, and the crowds of people are thick as they watch her excitedly. There are drummers scattered throughout the waiting congregation, beating out quick rhythms for circles of dancing young people. She can smell the distinctive odors of roasting meat — the scent overpowers every other, as far as she’s concerned — and her stomach growls hungrily up at her.

Ilian, the man in charge of caring for the Commander’s personal stables, bows his head in deference when she finally manages to stop in front of him. “Ilian,” she says in greeting, holding out her arm. He grasps her forearm tightly for a moment.

“ _Heda_ ,” he says back. He drops her arm and brings his hand to rest on the neck of her horse. He rubs the animal with slow, soothing circles of his palm, already looking more interested in the horse than in their conversation. But that’s something Lexa has always appreciated about him — his priorities lie with animals, not humans, and he never pretends any different. “I trust the journey was good?” He asks politely.

“Good,” she agrees, “but long.” She glances behind her. Many people loiter near the stable gates, keeping a respectful distance from the Commander’s prized horses but still watching her avidly. “Do you know what this madness is all about?”

“A feast for the August Harvest, _Heda_.” He bows his head slightly. “And to celebrate your safe return.”

Lexa hums, her expression slightly disapproving. “And who, may I ask, ordered this feast?”

“That would be me,” a voice calls from behind her. Lexa twists in her saddle, her heart rate immediately spiking at the familiar, teasing tone. Clarke emerges from the midst of the crowd beaming, her eyes bright. She looks radiant in the late afternoon sun, her hair glowing, her eyes shining, her outfit clean and well-fitted. She looks relaxed, at ease, and joyful. Lexa knows that it makes her look nowhere near composed, but she can’t help the way her mouth falls open, just a little.

Clarke bites her lip at the expression on Lexa’s face, and Lexa wants nothing more than to kiss her. She’s only been gone two weeks, but it feels like an eternity since she last saw Clarke smile at her like that. “Thought you could use a nice welcome-back present,” Clarke says as she approaches. “And besides, everyone loves a good feast.”

Clarke smiles at her from the ground. She takes the reins of Lexa’s horse into her hand, steadying the animal so that Lexa may dismount him. “Welcome back, Commander,” she says, her voice low and husky, her face bright and her lips tilted up in a silent promise. _I can’t wait to get you alone,_ her hungry eyes seem to say as they drop down Lexa’s body, feasting on her appearance.

She’s filthy. They have been riding at a punishing pace for the last six hours now, eager to return home in time for dinner, and Lexa knows she must look frightful. Her clothes are splattered with mud, her skin slick with sweat. Her hair has not been washed in going on three days, and she has dirt caked under her finger nails. Her thighs ache from the pressure of riding, and she knows she will have bruises littering most of her skin, once she finally gets the chance to examine herself.

She’s filthy, and yet Clarke still looks at her like she would ravage her right here and now, against the bare ground, if only they were alone.

And Lexa finds that, suddenly, she is fed-up. She’s done with the lying, with the pretending; she’s done with exchanging polite words and proper titles with Clarke in public. She’s not going to continue to try to convince her people of a fabricated sort of propriety, not when there is none to be had; not when she couldn’t care less what they think of her and her personal life.

In two long strides, Lexa is able to easily sweep Clarke into her arms. The other woman squeaks in surprise, but the moment Lexa’s lips fall onto her own, Clarke melts against her.

Lexa kisses her fiercely, with all the passion and frustration of being separated from her love for so many restless days. Clarke kisses her back with equal amounts of desperation and relief, and for a moment all Lexa can feel is Clarke’s mouth against hers, Clarke’s hands tangled deep in her hair, Clarke’s warm body pressed against her own, the little laugh that bubbles up from Clarke’s throat right before it’s displaced by a moan. For a moment, all Lexa knows is the feeling of Clarke against her.

And then someone in the crowd cheers, and she remembers herself.

She pulls away quickly, her eyes a little wide, face more than a little flushed, and stares at Clarke with an almost-open mouth. Clarke is staring back at her, too, though her face looks much less _stricken_ and much more _overjoyed._

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Clarke says quietly, a little breathless. The crowd around them is thunderous, and the ground shakes with the momentum of hundreds of pounding feet.

“Me either.”

Clarke grins broadly and pulls Lexa back down for another, slower kiss. A cheer goes through the assembled masses, and Lexa smiles into the embrace. Titus is sure to scream himself hoarse at her tomorrow, but for right now, she simply cannot bring herself to care.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	6. Famous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander is the most recognizable figure within the 13 Clans.
> 
> But _Wanheda_ comes in a close second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Friday, March 2nd: Famous**
> 
> This takes place about a year after the events of Season 3a. Canon-divergent from 3x07.

____________________

 _(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,_  
_We convince by our presence.)_

____________________

The Commander is the most recognizable figure within the 13 Clans. Clarke knows this; Lexa knows this. She cannot walk out onto the street without being swarmed by admirers, without being besieged by a multitude of queries and problems. She cannot travel without an Honor Guard, lest some naïve, bold assassin — perhaps a holdover from when the Ice Queen still maintained a modicum of power over a certain subset of society — make an attempt on her life.

The Commander is the most recognizable figure within the 13 Clans. She’s as close as they come to royalty, to celebrity, to a queen and monarch and God. It’s obvious by the way she commands a room; by the way people bow to her when she walks past; by the way children whisper stories and legends about her amongst themselves at night; by the way her people not only revere her, but also adore her. It’s obvious by the way they come to her with their problems; by the way the sick reach out to her on the street; by the way merchants and vendors offer her their goods for free, practically begging her to take them, and by the way she refuses any such item which she cannot pay for immediately.

The Commander is the most recognizable figure within the 13 Clans.

But _Wanheda_ comes in a close second.

It surprises Clarke, the first time she realizes. Within her usual circles — among political leaders, generals, Sky People, and other Ambassadors — she knows that she is recognizable. But she (perhaps foolishly) thought that the knowledge of her appearance stopped at the edge of those particular groups. Legends about her may spread throughout the 13 Clans, but in a crowd, Clarke has always believed herself to be relatively invisible. To those who mattered, she was known; but to the everyday citizen, she was a ghost; a story, not a person.

At least, that’s what she always thought.

It happens on an innocuous day, when Clarke is visiting the local markets. She loves exploring the streets of Polis, loves the way the people flock to and flood the busy city centers. She loves experiencing the intermixed cultures of the different clans, all congregating as one united citizenry in their capitol. She loves looking at the craftsmanship on pieces of furniture, loves marveling at the new weaponry. Most of all, she enjoys when she has an opportunity (and a need, really) to _actually_ shop. And today is her favorite instance of all: when she must purchase new art supplies.

Clarke has no significant wealth to speak of. She possesses a few tradable goods — things she’s picked up over the last year, items she’s found or bartered for — but mostly what she is able to trade consists of food, and Lexa’s personal wealth.

She doesn’t like to do it. It took months for Lexa to convince her that their belongings were meant to be shared, that she had no use for the wealth afforded to her position, that nothing would make her happier than the ability to purchase the very few luxury items Clarke desires.

So she doesn’t like to do it, doesn’t like to take Lexa’s money with her when she goes to the markets, but Lexa has been insisting so vehemently — and Clarke _does_ have a birthday approaching, and she _is_ in desperate need for some new paints — that she hesitantly, begrudgingly acquiesces.

She spots a stand a few hundred yards away, and just from one glance she can tell it’s perfect. She makes her way carefully through the crowds and her eyes light up when she draws closer. It’s a new vendor — Clarke doesn’t think she recognizes the woman from her previous trips here — and her selection is extraordinary. She has jars of paints, leather-bound notebooks, reams of paper, and dozens and dozens of pencils. Clarke is awed by the sheer variety of it all, and her fingers glide carefully along the spines of sketchbooks, her knuckles brushing against the pencils almost reverently.

She pauses over a pallet of paints, bright and oily and untouched.

She reaches into her coin purse and grabs a handful. Looking up at the woman inside the stall, she gestures towards the pallet of paints. “How much?” She asks.

The woman shakes her head and says something in a language Clarke does not understand. It is not _Trigedasleng,_ but one of the other regional dialects. Clarke is not familiar with them all, not yet, so she cannot place her origin.

Clarke frowns, and again holds out her coins. But the woman pushes her hand away from her and shakes her head more vehemently. She repeats her phrase, yet Clarke still does not understand.

She turns to the warrior at her side (the man Lexa insists she take with her, whenever she leaves the safety of the tower). “What’s she saying?” She asks him, in English.

“She is saying it is free for you, _Wanheda_.”

Clarke blinks in surprise. “No,” she says, then turns back to the woman. “No, I… I can’t accept… these are expensive, and I have the money.” She glances back at her guard. “Rivo, can you tell her?”

He speaks to the woman, his voice gruff, his words stiff and a little unnatural. Her language is not his, but Lexa’s best warriors all know a little bit of every language, just enough to get by when they need to. The woman responds to him, her voice fluttery and light and overly-excited.

“She says she will not accept your money, _Wanheda_ ,” he addresses her, while still squinting at the woman in front of them, who has not stopped talking. “She says you destroyed the _Maunon_. They took her brother.” Clarke swallows thickly. “She says you will never have to pay, here.”

Clarke shakes her head. “ _Beja_ ,” she begs the woman, frustrated by her lack of ability to communicate with her effectively, “let me pay you. I have enough.”

“You should accept her gift, _Wanheda_ ,” Rivo says quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. “To refuse would be an insult.”

Clarke shakes her head. “The Commander _always_ pays. Even when they try not to let her.”

Rivo chuckles. “The Commander is firm. She does not bend. They accept her money only when she wears them down.”

“I…” Clarke looks helplessly at the item in her hand, then back to the woman who is still beaming at her. Clarke smiles back, weakly. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. _“Mochof.”_ The woman bows, so low her forehead touches her table.

Clarke walks away from her feeling distinctly uncomfortable, distinctly visible. She looks around at the market they’re caught in the middle of, and suddenly she starts to see it differently. People make way for her as she walks past them. Children giggle and run after her in the street. Men and women she has never met before nod politely at her, even though they do not afford the same courtesies to other strangers.

Clarke runs a hand through her hair, a little flustered. “How did she know who I was?” She asks her guard quietly.

He shrugs from his spot next to her. “You are _Wanheda_ ,” he says, like it’s obvious. Maybe it is to him. “You wear the Commander’s colors; you wear the Commander’s braids. You defeated the _Maunon_. You brought peace to our people. Anyone would know you.”

____________________

The Commander is famous; it’s as simple as that. So when she travels, news of her activities spread throughout the 13 Clans. When she engages in a particularly ferocious duel, or when she wins a particularly difficult victory over an impossible enemy, it takes only a few short days for the entire Coalition to hear of it. And when something happens to her, fear and anxiety ripple through her soldiers, through the people of Polis. It sets the entire energy of the city off-balance.

Lexa lives a dangerous existence. Clarke knows this about her. She knows the risks Lexa takes every day when she climbs out of bed. She knows that peace is hard-fought, and precarious at best, short-lived at worst. She knows men fall easy and naturally into war. She knows that Lexa’s duties take her into hostile lands, and among hostile people. She knows this, and she tries not to dwell on it.

But every once in a while, she is cruelly reminded.

 

 

 

Once, in the dead heat of summer, Clarke is awoken in the middle of the night by a soft hand, gently shaking her awake. “ _Wanheda_ ,” a quiet voice whispers, and Clarke jerks up and out of her sleep immediately.

“What is it?” She asks, suddenly alert. She’s never been woken up like this, before. Not without Lexa here. It’s Lexa who must see to business in the dead of night, Lexa who must slip from the bed and staunch fires and quell rebellions. No one has ever come for _her_ , before. Which can’t mean anything good. So Clarke wakes up immediately, her heart already beating just a little bit too fast. Something like anxiety, like trepidation, like premonition sinks into her stomach.

A young Healer stands near the foot of her bed. Clarke recognizes her as one of the women Lexa has accompany her, when she travels. She is one of the Commander’s most trusted _fisa_. Clarke sits up straighter in bed, her heart already full of dread. “Roma?” She asks, and her voice shakes a little as it exits her throat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“ _Heda_ and her warriors were only a day’s ride from Polis, when _Azgeda natrona_ …” Her jaw clenches. “There was an ambush.”

Clarke’s heart stops beating in her chest. “What happened? Where is she?” She scrambles from the bed immediately and starts throwing on whatever is nearest, not caring for a single moment that Roma has seen her climb, naked, from the Commander’s bed.

“She is with her _fisa_ ,” the girl says. She hands Clarke a pair of boots, which Clarke gratefully accepts. She shoves her feet into them without bothering to tie the laces. “They only made it back about an hour ago. I came to find you as soon as I was able.”

Clarke grips the woman’s arm tightly. “ _Mochof,_ Roma.”

She nods sharply. “Come. I will take you to her.”

 

 

 

Lexa looks small, in her bed. Small and young, and unburdened by the deaths of thousands, unencumbered by the responsibilities of leadership. She always looks like this, when she sleeps. It’s part of the reason Clarke relishes any opportunity she can get to see her so vulnerable.

But not like this. Never like this.

Lexa’s face is still a little bloody, from a long and sharp cut that stretches from her temple up into her hairline. Clarke knows that it will likely scar. Her arm is wrapped in bandages, her ankle wrapped tight against a nasty sprain, and underneath her covers, Clarke knows that at least two of her ribs are cracked. She’s been unconscious for nearly six hours, now, and Clarke has felt every minute pass with a slow, unendurable kind of agony.

She holds Lexa’s hand lightly in her own, her fingers brushing slow circles along the broken skin of Lexa’s knuckles. She hasn’t been able to sleep, not since Roma brought her down here. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep properly until she knows that Lexa is alright.

“What will the people say—” Lexa’s teasing voice sounds from the bed, raspy and rough from sleep and dehydration. Clarke’s gaze shoots up to hers immediately— “when word gets out that you spent all night by my sick bed?”

Clarke laughs wetly, wiping at her eyes. “Like they don’t know,” she says with a small smile, relief flooding through her at once. She bends forward and presses a soft kiss to the side of Lexa’s forehead that is uncut and unmarred. “Roma came and got me from your bed.”

“From our bed,” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke chuckles. “Right. _Our_ bed.”

Lexa rolls her neck a little, her eyes still heavy and lidded. “Water?” She croaks. Clarke nods and grabs the glass from her bedside, bringing it to Lexa’s lips carefully. She drinks greedily, until the cup is empty.

Clarke takes Lexa’s face in her hand when she has finished. Her thumb brushes against the woman’s bruised cheek, and smiles down at her with tears in her eyes. “You almost died, yesterday.”

Lexa nods. “Almost. But not yet. Today, my spirit stays where it belongs.”

“Don’t joke about that, please,” Clarke whispers, shaking her head. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You upset me by almost dying. Your jokes are terrible; not upsetting.”

Lexa smiles, just a little bit. “You say Roma got you from our bed?”

Clarke nods. “I was expecting you back tonight. When you didn’t show, I thought you must have been held up.”

Lexa hums softly. “It’s interesting,” Lexa says, more to herself than anyone else. “They don’t seem to care. I always thought they would. That if they ever saw me with…” She shakes her head. “Titus always made it seem—”

“Titus doesn’t know what he’s talking about, most of the time.”

Lexa laughs at that, but immediately the sound is cut off by a groan of pain. She presses her hand to her wounded side, her face twisted in a pale grimace. Clarke squeezes her hand tightly until the wave of pain seems to pass over her. Lexa takes a few deep breaths before she opens her eyes again. “I always thought that it would matter more, to them,” she continues her explanation. “That they would want me to be alone, and without distraction. That it would make them angry, if I had a… partner. A _houmon_.”

Clarke flushes at the term, but she does not dwell upon it. “Your people love you,” she says instead. “I don’t think you know just how much. They want you to be happy, after everything you’ve done for them.”

“And they know that you make me happy.”

It’s not a question, but still, Clarke answers her. “I should hope so.”

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. They will be canon-compliant until roughly episode 3x07 (you all know why) with Chapters 1-2 being canon-compliant, and then Chapters 3-7 diverging from there. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


	7. Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For two years, Clarke and Lexa have been living together in the capital, ruling mostly side-by-side. But some of the other Clans still oppose the amount of power Clarke seems to hold within the Coalition, and especially the way the Commander seems to listen to and even defer to her on important matters of state.
> 
> In order to cement Clarke’s position as a ruler equal to the _Heda_ , Lexa convinces her that they must go through with an elaborate political ceremony. A logistical thing, really. Simply for show. (But she’s very nervous when she asks and Clarke can’t quite figure out why.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Saturday, March 3rd: Marriage (Free Day)**
> 
> A little tooth-aching fluff to close out this AU. Thank you all for reading/commenting/liking/reblogging my stuff. It's been a treat to see all of your reactions.

____________________

 _Camerado, I give you my hand!_  
_I give you my love more precious than money,_  
_I give you myself before preaching or law;_  
_Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?_  
_Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?_

____________________

If Lexa had been able to predict the future, two years ago, she would have guessed that many, many seasons into her relationship with Clarke, Titus would surely have grown tired of showering her with warnings she was never going to listen to.

But apparently not.

He stands in front of her, his face red with anger, glowering at her dangerously and rehashing the same argument they’ve had countless times over the past two years. “There is unrest amongst the _Kongeda_ , _Heda_ ,” he says, as if she doesn’t already know this. “The other Clans… they take offense to how you seem to favor _Klark kom Skaikru_.”

Lexa sighs deeply. “We have had this conversation before, Titus. I thought we had finally settled this.” She turns her back to him, her arms folded behind her back. “I didn’t think my personal life was the business of the other Clans. Nor yours, for that matter.”

“It is if it interferes with your judgment; with your rationality. You antagonize them by your treatment of _Klark._ They do not like the way _Skaikru_ have so quickly infiltrated the ranks of our society.”

Lexa bristles at that. “ _Infiltrated_?” She growls, low and dangerous. “ _Skaikru_ have not _infiltrated_. I let them into my Coalition. They submitted to becoming the Thirteenth Clan. Nothing I have done for them has been any more or less than what I have done for my other subjects.”

“But _Wanheda… Seintaim dison laik yu kwelnes, Heda_ …”

She turns to him, her expression dark. “If I were you, I would be mindful of what I was insinuating. It sounds as if you are questioning your Commander’s judgment. _Nou tel ai op ha dula ai job,_ Titus. My feelings for Clarke do not stop me from performing my duties as Commander."

Titus bows his head low to the ground in submission. “Forgive me, _Heda_ , but they _do_ interfere. They do. _Wanheda_ gains access to you that no other Ambassador has. She has your ear when they do not. You value her opinions over those of even your most valued generals. Your feelings for Clarke have elevated her within the Coalition to a dangerous degree.”

“Clarke elevates herself.”

“Maybe so, but you _help_ her. She is not your equal, _Heda_ , and you cannot treat her as such.”

Lexa pauses, a curious look growing on her face. “You’re right,” she says slowly, carefully. “Yes. I will do something about that.”

Titus’s face pales instantly, his mouth dropping open. “I… I beg your pardon, _Heda_?”

“You’re right, Titus. Clarke is not my equal. The rest of the Coalition refuses to acknowledge her position within our government. The other Ambassadors question my decisions regarding her and her Clan. It has been years, but the people still refuse to see her as one of us.” She nods decisively. “You’re right that she is not my equal. So I will _make_ her my equal.”

“But… you… you’re talking about—”

“The ceremony, yes.” Lexa nods. “I take it you can make all the proper arrangements?”

“I… _Heda_ , I beg of you. Please, be _reasonable_ —”

“I _am_ being reasonable, Titus. I trust Clarke. I trust her to speak for me when I am incapacitated, to act in my stead when I am absent. But you’re right, the other Ambassadors will never listen to her authority without it being officially granted.” Lexa folds her arms behind her back as she gazes out of the large windows near her bed, surveying her kingdom with quiet contemplation. “I will discuss the matter with Clarke, tonight. I trust you don’t need my guidance for the rest of your duties?”

Titus, his face a bright shade of red, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth are still in place, nods once. “ _Sha, Heda_.”

____________________

For two years, Clarke and Lexa have been living together in the capital, ruling mostly side-by-side. But some of the other Clans still oppose the amount of power Clarke seems to hold within the Coalition, and especially the way the Commander seems to listen to and even defer to her on important matters of state.

That’s what Lexa tells her, anyway, late one night in their shared bedroom. “The people grow restless. The other Clans still refuse to treat you… to treat _all_ of _Skaikru_ as part of our people. They cannot see past our shared history.”

Clarke nods, beginning to understand. “So what you’re suggesting…”

“A ceremony. Of unification.” She grows nervous when Clarke does not respond. “It would be political, more than anything. Logistically, we need some way to legitimize _Skaikru._ It would put an end to all of the conflict, all of infighting regarding your people.”

Clarke tilts her head, considering. “Okay. I think I understand. What would we have to do, if we went through with this?”

Lexa smiles suddenly, tentatively. Clarke isn’t quite sure why. “It would be simple, really. We swear fealty to each other; we bind ourselves in blood. It would cement you as an equal, to me.”

“An equal?” That surprises her. “I thought no one was equal to _Heda.”_

“Well, not completely equal,” Lexa concedes. “But it would make your authority official. You could speak for me, act in my place if necessary. My warriors would listen to you; the people would have to do as you asked, so long as it did not go against my orders.”

Clarke frowns, biting her lip. “Is that a good idea? I’m not a Grounder… I don’t rule the way you do. I don’t have a mandate to lead our people like the _Natblida.”_

Lexa nods. “I understand. And I won’t force you into anything you don’t want to do. But… if we did this ceremony… we could finally put all of this to rest.” She reaches forward, taking Clarke’s hand in hers. “We could finally have a real, lasting peace,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Together.”

“And you think I’m able to speak for you? To act in your place? I haven’t been trained for this, Lexa, I don’t know—”

“I trust you, Clarke,” she says softly. She squeezes Clarke’s hand lightly. “And you know the intricacies of our government. You are the only one who can mediate between the rest of our people and _Skaikru._ You are the only one who has seen what I do, who knows what I would want. You are the only person I trust to be able to speak for me.” Clarke swallows around a lump in her throat, the weight of Lexa’s words sinking down upon her. “If anything should happen to me,” Lexa continues softly, “I need someone I can trust to take over until a new Commander can be chosen.”

Clarke shakes her head. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Our lives are harsh, Clarke. And short. Sometimes things happen even when we do not expect them to.”

“Listen to me, okay?” Clarke says, stepping into Lexa’s space. She brings her hand up to cup Lexa’s cheek, the other tightening in Lexa’s grip. “ _Nothing_ is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.”

Lexa smiles softly. “Alright, Clarke. Nothing is going to happen to me.” Clarke nods decisively, even as her thumb brushes Lexa’s cheek. Lexa leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed. “Even so,” she murmurs, “will you do the ceremony?”

Clarke nods, and Lexa kisses her at once, without warning.

 

 

 

They go through with the ceremony. It’s small, and in many ways it feels like just another day, just another official tradition they have to follow. They both dress in their most official outfits; Lexa braids Clarke’s hair; Titus stands in front of them reciting the lines Lexa has told her need to be recited. He glares at Clarke the entire time, though that’s hardly out of the ordinary. The leaders of all 13 Clans are present, as are a handful of Lexa’s prominent generals and a few scattered officials.

All in all, it’s nothing she hasn’t done before. Clarke kneels to Lexa; Lexa kneels to Clarke. They swear fealty to each other, and to each other’s people. They exchange promises, as is traditionally done. “ _Yu laik ai kru, Leksa,”_ Clarke says.

“You are my people, Clarke,” Lexa repeats back to her.

They make shallow cuts on their own hands and bring them together, binding themselves in blood, and then it’s done. Just like that.

____________________

Lexa has started calling Clarke _ai houmon,_ and Clarke _knows_ that this means ‘my wife’, and she and Lexa aren’t married, obviously, but she finds that she’s still comfortable with the phrasing. She and Lexa have been together for over two years, and the Grounders don’t have many words suited to the exact specificities of their relationship. _Trigedasleng_ and _Gonasleng_ both fail to capture in equal measure the depth and devotion of their commitment to each other and the surety with which they cohabitate and co-lead. ‘ _Girlfriend’_ is too youthful; too informal. Lexa is _Heda,_ she is the Commander, the ruler of her people. She is no one’s _girlfriend. ‘My love’_ is also not the proper term — though it is accurate. But for Lexa to label Clarke as her _love_ so openly, in front of her people… it would be unseemly. For one, it would imply a tenderness the Commander is not allowed to publicly express. But the more important reason Lexa will never refer to Clarke as her love in an official or public capacity is for, in many ways, a much simpler reason. So many have lost so much in this great, terrible war they’ve been fighting. Decades of anger and starvation, of killing and fear… For Lexa to openly embrace a new love in the face of so much death and loss and sacrifice… Clarke can imagine it wouldn’t send the best message.

So… ‘ _wife_.’ Not exactly _accurate_ , given the circumstances, but certainly appropriate. The Grounder word for wife, of course, lacks the connotations behind the English word. _Houmoun_ is more than just _wife;_ it is husband, spouse, ally, companion, partner, equal. That is what Clarke is to Lexa, even if she isn’t _officially_ her ‘wife.’

For all intents and purposes, Clarke is comfortable with the title. However, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still surprise her, the first time she hears it out loud.

 

 

 

 _“_ I am needed elsewhere in the Coalition,” Lexa says, addressing her Ambassadors. “While I am gone, _Klark kom Skaikru_ will act in my stead. _Em laik ai houmon. Sen em op.”_ There’s a rustling of unrest from the other Ambassadors. Lexa stands, a hand on the hilt of her sword, striking an imposing figure with her long, flowing cape and dark eye makeup. “It has been two years,” her voice thunders among the surrounding hordes. The Ambassadors fall still. Clarke looks up at Lexa with her head slightly bent, her eyes a little hidden behind her hair. “ _Skaikru ste ona ai bana nau._ You all witnessed them join the Coalition. You witnessed my own unification ceremony just last month.” Her fingers flex around the handle of her sword. “If any of you question my methods, do not hesitate to speak. Challenge me, if you must. But I am your _Heda_ ; and these are my orders. If you cannot follow them, you should not stay.”

No one speaks up, no one questions her. Clarke comes to realize, in that moment, that Lexa was right for insisting they do that ceremony.

No one ever questions her position by Lexa’s side again.

____________________

Years pass — long, bright years full of joy and more peace than either of their worlds have ever known. The Coalition grows stronger as Roan corrals the last remaining vestiges of Nia’s insubordinate followers. As _Skaikru_ grow more comfortable on the ground they learn to hunt, they learn to farm. They learn to bargain with surrounding _Trikru_ villages, forging tentative relationships of mutually-beneficial partnership. They barter, they coexist. The people of the 13 Clans start to coalesce around a common identity. There is more inter-marriage between them, more unions. There are more children born in these two years than Clarke has ever seen, before. Lexa assures her it is something remarkable, something out of the ordinary. It feels like every third citizen is a child, a toddler, a baby crying in its mother’s arms.

There is peace, where there was none before, and it is wonderful.

In many ways, everything has changed about this world. The harsh, volatile land Clarke first came to know has dissipated into a peaceful and thriving network of communities, sharing language and food and borders and culture.

In many ways, the world is completely changed from years prior. But in many other ways, nothing much has changed at all, in the grand scheme of things. At least for Clarke and Lexa on a day-to-day basis.

Lexa commands her armies, runs her government, strengthens her Coalition, corrals upset Ambassadors and handles minor squabbles. She trains her _Natblida,_ provides guidance whenever she can over matters of importance. She eats her meals with Clarke, and falls asleep next to her. She studies, and she learns; she trains, she hunts, she rides. She and Clarke still share many of the day-to-day responsibilities of the Commander. They attend meetings together (or Clarke goes in Lexa’s stead), they discuss treaties and innovative ideas for food storage; they enlist Raven to build a water filtration system; they task Monty with developing new medicine, and within a year his success is astounding; and Clarke, with Lexa’s blessing, founds a make-shift sort of medical school in Polis’ thriving metropolitan center.

So, in terms of day-to-day activities, nothing much has changed about Clarke and Lexa’s duties. The only difference is that now, people tend to bow when Clarke walks past them, and if Lexa is drawn away on business, Clarke can sit in on Council meetings and speak for her; act as she would act. The other Clan leaders defer to her lead, when it is required, even if they grumble unhappily about it amongst themselves. And during the only instance in which Clarke has ever needed to command one of Lexa’s generals in battle, he listens to her without a moment’s hesitation.

It has been years since the Ark crashed to Earth; years since the fall of Mount Weather; years since the Great War, since _Skaikru_ became the Thirteenth Clan. It has been years, and the peace they fought so hard for is finally beginning to feel less _temporary_ and more _permanent._ It’s been years, and Clarke is now 25, and she’s lived longer than she ever thought she would have. And she loves Lexa more than she ever thought possible. Their world has been peaceful for a long time, and she thinks… she thinks she should ask Lexa to marry her. They’ve been together for years, and they’re married in everything but the official title, and Clarke thinks that it’s really time they rectify that. Their peace is no longer fleeting. Their people grow in numbers, happy and exuberant in the face of a new and open future; their alliance strengthens with each passing day as cooperation breeds innovation and further success for all the Clans involved.

There is nothing stopping her from claiming her own happiness — her own future — fully. Her people are strong. _Their_ people are strong. They do not owe them their lives; not anymore.

And she knows how much Lexa loves her, knows how devoted Lexa is to her, wholly and completely. So she knows she won’t be turned down.

She asks Raven to help her make a ring out of sheet metal broken off from a piece of the Ark — something small and silver and not flashy at all, because Clarke knows that _gaudy_ isn’t exactly Lexa’s style. She carves a little box out of a fallen oak tree and, one evening, in the heart of summer — during the time of year when the sun sets late the day — she asks Lexa to marry her.

She’s got the ring box out, open and set on the table in front of her, but Lexa just stares down at the object with obvious confusion.

“Marry?” Lexa says, blinking at the ring. “I don’t know this word.”

“Marry, like… marriage. To be married. You know… _Bonded_.” Lexa looks up at her, her expression unreadable. Clarke bites her lip and continues explaining. “We exchange rings and vow to spend the rest of our lives together and everything. It’s a _Skaikru_ custom.” Lexa frowns, and Clarke’s stomach immediately drops. “Oh,” she says quietly, as Lexa _still_ doesn’t answer her, as the realization of rejection starts to sink heavily into her bones. She clears her throat and blinks her eyes very quickly against the tears she can feel building there. “Or… you know, if you can’t, or if you aren’t allowed to or if you don’t want to, I… I get that. Octavia said it was alright for Commanders to have bonding ceremonies, but I should have asked before—”

Lexa reaches out a hand and grabs Clarke’s wrist to stop her from pulling the ring box back towards her. “No, Clarke. That’s not… I’m just _confused_. We’ve been bonded for two years.” Clarke stares at her, mouth open and eyes wide and unblinking. Lexa frowns harder. “I suppose we are already… _married_.” The word comes out of her mouth hesitantly, like she’s not sure what to make of it.

“We… _what_? How did we get _married_ without me knowing about it?”

“There was a unification ceremony. You remember it. We had many conversations before it happened.”

“That… you told me that was for political reasons! So I could run things in Polis while you were gone!”

“It was!” Lexa stresses adamantly. “Among Clan leaders, between Commanders and their partners, bonding is… more of a military tactic. We very rarely get to pick those to whom we are bonded. We do it for alliances and political gain. It’s not usually about love, so it’s… not as romantic as your _married_.”

“Our marriage,” Clarke corrects without thinking, her gaze a little hazy and her head a little unclear. She’s having trouble keeping up with the pace of this conversation.

Lexa reaches out and lays her hand on top of Clarke’s in a comforting sort of gesture. “I’ve upset you,” she says quietly, her fingers running soothing circles on the skin of Clarke’s knuckles. “I’m sorry, Clarke. Would you like to have a marriage?”

“A wedding, you mean,” Clarke corrects again, instinctively.

Lexa nods. “Yes. A wedding. Would you like one?”

“Well,” Clarke says with a dry little laugh, “apparently it’s useless, because I’ve had a wife for nearly three years, now.”

Though Clarke’s tone isn’t exactly _light_ and it isn’t exactly _teasing_ , Lexa can’t help but smile. “You’ve never called me your wife, before.”

“I never knew we were _married_ , before.” Clarke rubs at her eyes. “You never _told me,_ Lexa.”

“I’m sorry, _ai hodnes_. I thought…” She shakes her head. “If I had _known_ you didn’t understand the significance of the ceremony, I never would have—”

“No, it’s…” Clarke sighs. “I mean, I _really_ should have picked up on it sooner. It’s not like you were trying to _hide it_ from me. And looking back on it now… it _was_ pretty obvious.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I _really_ did think that you knew.” Lexa slides her hand under Clarke’s and pulls back out the small wooden box with the offered ring sitting inside of it. Lexa slips the ring out and looks at it carefully, admiring the craftsmanship behind the metal working. “I would like to have a wedding with you.” Clarke’s gaze snaps up to meet hers. “To make it official, with your people,” she explains further. She takes the ring and confidently slides it onto her finger — the pointer finger of her right hand, that is.

Clarke laughs at once at the image. “No, you… it goes on this one. Here, let me.” She slips the ring off of Lexa’s pointer finger and slides it carefully and slowly onto the ring finger of her left hand. She’s pleased when it fits almost perfectly.

Clarke looks down at her ring on Lexa’s finger and feels a thrill of something, deep in her chest. This is real. They’re actually doing this. “Are you sure you want this?” She whispers, her eyes still trained on the glittering ring. “You don’t have to. I’m fine with what we have right now. I don’t need a wedding to make anything official.”

Lexa shakes her head. “You are the only person I want to share this life with, Clarke. To me it doesn’t matter if we married years ago or if we marry in fifty years. You are mine, and I am yours. I swore fealty to you. I pledged my life to you. I accepted you as my people and you accepted me as yours.”

“You’re good with romantic speeches,” Clarke says quietly.

Lexa smiles again. “What did you think we were doing these past two years,” she teases, “if we were not married?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You’re infuriating; do you know that? I can’t _stand_ you.”

“I thought you wanted to marry me?”

“I’m _already_ married to you. Also, you’re a jerk for not telling me about that.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing to you, Clarke. I never meant—”

Clarke presses a finger to her lips, shushing her at once. “Don’t apologize. I’m not mad at you. Not really.” She drops her hand back down to Lexa’s, her fingers ghosting over the outline of the ring. She already loves the way it looks on Lexa’s hand; the way it feels against her skin, a little cold but rapidly warming. She’ll have to talk to Raven about making her one to match it. “I guess I just thought…” She continues quietly, “well, I thought that if I ever got married, I’d at least _know_ it was happening.” She has to shake her head as she smiles ruefully. Lexa’s mirroring smile is wide and relieved, no doubt because of Clarke’s lack of anger.

Clarke chuckles and shakes her head again. “Oh I wouldn’t get _too_ relaxed, if I were you,” she warns seriously. “When my mom finds out she missed my wedding, she’s going to march over here and kill you herself.”

Lexa’s eyes grow comically large and Clarke can’t help but laugh.

____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Clexa Week 2018 involves all canon-universe stories. The chapters move chronologically through the show’s timeline, and can be read as a sequence of one-shots within the same universe.
> 
> Follow me on [ tumblr. ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **
> 
>  _Seintaim dison laik yu kwelnes, Heda…_ – “If this is your weakness again, Heda…”
> 
>  _Nou tel ai op ha dula ai job, Titus._ – “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Titus.”
> 
>  _Em laik ai houmon. Sen em op._ – “She is my wife. Listen to her.”
> 
>  _Skaikru ste ona ai bana nau._ – “Skaikru are with us now.”


End file.
